Pain Management
by RochelleRene
Summary: House relapses.
1. Chapter 1

**This is set in mid-season 7 before Bombshells. (The timing is pretty much oc7ober's wet dream. LOL.) I had been waiting that whole season for them to deal with the relapse issue. Then they did and they did it so… UGH. So, here's what I would have liked to have seen.**

**[H] [H] [H]**

Ironically, the day had started out great. House had helped Cuddy out when she'd suddenly remembered late the previous night that Rachel's preschool was closed that day. She'd panicked over having a big meeting the next morning and House had agreed to babysit half the day. He'd stayed in his pajamas most of the morning dozing while Rachel pretended he was sick and took care of him with plastic toy medical instruments. When that got old, he made Rachel and himself pancakes with grotesque amounts of syrup. It had been an easy favor, really, but when Cuddy came home at lunch she was so appreciative that she'd let Rachel watch some television and led House to the bedroom, pushed him up against the door, and gone down on him so unexpectedly that he had his backpack slung on his shoulder the whole time.

He leaned against the door catching his breath while Cuddy fastened his pants back up. "Do you do that for all your emergency babysitters?"

Cuddy winked at him. "It's standard compensation."

He was still smiling when he got on his bike and sped off to the hospital. On the way, though, he was pulled over for speeding by a cop who – shockingly - found his personality less than amusing. Then he got to his office to find a woman waiting to serve him papers for a malpractice suit. These came often enough, but never ceased to leave him a little chagrined when, like in this case, charges were filed even though the patient had lived, with all his appendages still attached no less. He shook it off and focused on his case…

…eleven hours later, though, the nine-year-old boy had died, and House still didn't know why. The family wouldn't allow an immediate autopsy and he knew he was going to have to fight to get one. His team dispersed in a melancholy parade, and he sat at his desk, marveling at how a day could span such delight and horror.

It was reflex, to be honest. He had turned to check his email, but out of habit he'd pulled his desk drawer wide open, the way he had in the past to access a hidden stash. It was like an ex-smoker patting his pockets for his cigarettes or lighter. At the end of a long day, feeling beaten down, this was the modus operandi.

He saw the condom wrapper out of the corner of his eye, partially covered by some sticky notes. He'd gotten stealthier after the Tritter fiasco and he knew there was no condom in there. He really didn't even give it a lot of thought… It was like he'd turned on autopilot and his hands were fishing the two Vicodin out of the wrapper and dropping them on his tongue without his brain really kicking in. The word "relapse" didn't even surface in his mind until he felt the pills clear his esophagus and begin dissolving in his stomach.

By the time he was really thinking about what he'd done, the drug was smoothing the edges, detaching him enough that even his rational thoughts couldn't really comprehend what was so wrong about this. The familiar buzz was so… relieving… nostalgic. And since it had been a while, he didn't just feel numb, but a little high even… a little happy.

He knew it was bad, even if he couldn't feel guilt yet. He knew it was bad enough that he couldn't go to Cuddy's… not after losing a patient and risking an exhibition of any degree of happiness. She was smart; she'd know. So he went to stretch out in his chair and relax, enjoying this temporary respite since the water was under the bridge. He put on a record and closed his eyes.

His door swung open and he opened his eyes to see Wilson standing there, frowny-faced with his hands on his hips. "I saw Chase downstairs. I'm sorry about your patient."

House averted his eyes, his whole face. He didn't want to let on. "Yeah," was all he said.

"You wanna go drown your sorrows?" Wilson offered.

House wrinkled his face a little. "Nah. I'm gonna head home in a few minutes." Inappropriate as it was, trying to trick Wilson was funny to him. He had to fight back a smile. He was punchy with the high.

"You okay?" Wilson asked. House knew he had to get him out of there... or _he_ had to get out of there. He stood and limped over to his backpack, forgetting his cane. When he turned back to head to the door, Wilson was scrutinizing him.

"Hey, are you okay?" Wilson asked again.

House shrugged. "I'm fine. It happens."

Too late. Wilson saw his pupils, his twitchy mouth. He saw his cane leaning against the chair before House thought to stealthily retrieve it.

"You're high."

House made a face like he was crazy and moved to push past him.

"House!"

House stopped and turned back to face him. "I didn't plan it."

"You're high?" Wilson asked now, incredulous despite his deduction.

"You know… yeah. Sue me. That seems to be the in thing to do right now." Wilson missed the reference and just held his arms out beckoning an explanation. House sighed and sat back down on the ottoman. "Shit. I didn't plan this. It was… spontaneous. Stupid."

"This is the first time?'

"Yeah."

"Really?"

"Yes! And you're really killing my buzz, if you must know."

"Where'd you get it?" Wilson asked.

"Desk drawer," House nodded his head toward the desk.

"Cuddy and I went through everything before you came back," Wilson lamented, scratching his head. "What did we miss?"

"Condom."

Wilson nodded. "Well, I should have known. Hookers bring their own, don't they?" House laughed at the joke. Wilson stared at him sternly. "Well, what are you gonna do?"

"Nothing, I'm fine. I'm gonna let this wear off and I'm back on the wagon. It's fine."

"You have to tell Cuddy."

"No I do not."

"House, a relapse is a big deal. She deserves to know."

"She deserves to not be worried about this when I know it's fine. _I_ know I'm fine. I don't need to get her all worked up."

"You can't handle your addiction all by yourself," Wilson warned him.

"I'm not. I told you."

"I _caught_ you."

"Same end result."

"Um, not so much with the whole _trusting-he-knows-I-am-there-for-him-and-will-come-to-me-for-help_ idea."

House gave him a sneer. "You don't have anything pithier than that?"

"I was going to call it the _friendship_ idea, but figured you'd need that spelled out a little more."

House smirked. He got up and gathered his stuff. "Well, 'good friend,' you wanna keep me company til this wears off? I'm much more chipper in this state. You might actually have fun."

Wilson smiled a little, shrugged. "What do you wanna do for three hours?"

"My leg feels good… Midnight bowling?"

[H] [H] [H]

Wilson and House were bowling and conversation had turned to rating the nurses on hotness. "You aren't even supposed to have an opinion," Wilson ribbed him.

"I can still judge," House said. "Cuddy's a thirty-year-aged aged scotch, but I can still rate the beers I like."

"Well… that's… classy?" Wilson replied. But he liked the conversation too much to argue. "I like Nicole in peds. She's hot and funny."

"Nicole… She the blonde with the big ta-tas?"

"No. Redhead. Average ta-tas."

"Oh, old 'ginger typical-ta-tas.' Yeah, she's cute. I hear from Don Gruber she's a natural redhead too," House winked at Wilson before rolling his ball down the alley.

"Don Gruber? How the hell does he know?"

"Um, well, I think he was referring to the color of her pubic hair, but I didn't ask."

Wilson shook his head in disgust. "I mean, he slept with her?"

"He didn't say. Just implied he saw her pubic hair."

"God! I get it! I'm asking you to analyze how the hell that could have happened."

"Well," House said, dropping onto a stool. "Redheads are often kinda slutty."

"That's a stereotype."

"Yeah, you're right. Sorta like Koreans giving good massages and drug addicts being liars. Bunch of bunk.

"Not _all _redheads are slutty."

"Not _all_ Koreans give good massages. But most do. Stereotypes aren't necessarily wrong. They're just oversimplifications of the truth."

"So all those lying drug addicts are just misunderstood?" Wilson teased.

"Drug addicts are worried about protecting their habit, above all else. So if the truth threatens that, they are likely to lie. They don't lie just for the sake of it any more than anyone else lies."

"And redheads?"

"They must have a slutty gene linked to the recessive hair color."

"'A slutty gene.' That's so scientific, it's going over my head."

House snickered. "Speaking of Nicole in peds and head…"

Wilson groaned in disgust. "Hold that thought – or don't – while I bowl."

They continued their banter and bowling, enjoying themselves enough to forget the somewhat tragic reason for this impromptu outing. As time marched on, though, Wilson saw House begin to change as the Vicodin wore off. He grew agitated, moving a lot and getting more beer. He'd look around, like he was missing something. He'd press his fist into his thigh. Wilson saw him spin the tiny scoring pencil in his fingers the way he used to spin his Vicodin bottle.

When they finished their third game, House told him he had better get home and asked him to drive him to Cuddy's house. They pulled up in front of the house and House said, "Thanks, Wilson. I… Thanks."

"Yeah. I'll see you tomorrow."

House opened the door and stepped out.

"House?" Wilson called.

"Yeah?" He didn't stoop down, so Wilson was staring at his torso framed by the door.

"You know I'm here… with that whole… _friendship_ thing. No matter what. Don't be an ass."

"Me? An ass?" House replied. "Don't believe the stereotypes about drug-addicted diagnosticians with chronic pain problems, Wilson."

Wilson chuckled. "Oh, okay. That's a load off."

House bent and looked at him. "The huge penis though… that part's true. We have huuuuge penises."

"G'night, House."

He watched him grin, slam the car door, and limp up Cuddy's walk.


	2. Chapter 2

As far as Cuddy knew, House had lost his patient and gone off with Wilson to distract himself for a while. She wasn't suspicious in the least, and House was relived in a way. Strangely, though, he'd expected her to protest more about him going to Wilson, not coming home to sulk with her. But she didn't. She acted like this was any other day despite the fact that House was riding in with her since he'd left his bike at the hospital.

House went into Wilson's office at lunch, "You didn't tell Cuddy about last night, did you?" he asked.

"No," Wilson said, not looking up from his work.

"I won't be mad. Really. I just want to know if you did."

"I didn't," Wilson said, still monotone, distracted.

"I just want to know if she knows. You know?" House pressed on.

Wilson put his pen down and looked up at him. "You _want_ her to know."

"Why the hell would I want her to know? All that will cause is worry."

"You want her to worry about you," Wilson said. "Because you're worried about yourself."

House was silent for a moment, narrowing his eyes at Wilson. "I'm fine."

Wilson narrowed his eyes back. "Tell her."

"You do realize that risks my entire relationship with her… romantic and professional."

"I think that's what you're trying to do, House," Wilson replied. "You need to know what this would mean for her. For you both."

"You always do this," House complained.

"Interpret your contradictory and deflective behavior to offer you an insight into your psyche and truest inner desires?" Wilson asked.

"I was gonna say 'piss me off' but sure, that too."

"Cuddy's great. She loves you. You love her. You guys can handle this."

House just looked at him. "Easy for you to say sitting there all not-addicted-to-drugs and what not."

Wilson gave him a half smile. "Well, yeah, but you got laid more recently."

House smiled widely. "You always know just what to say, Jimmy."

[H] [H] [H]

House came into Cuddy's office near the end of the day. She quickly looked up at him. "Hey!" she smiled before returning to something she was filling out. House stood there, shifting his weight and running his hand absent-mindedly along the back of a chair.

Cuddy sensed his nervousness. "What's up?" she asked.

"I…" He cleared his throat. "I have to tell you something and you're not gonna like it."

"Ooooh, I love these conversations," Cuddy said sarcastically. She set her pen down and gave him her full attention. "You break something? Offend someone? Are we being sued yet again?" she smiled at him, still misreading his seriousness.

House forced a small grin then blurted it out. "I took two Vicodin last night."

Cuddy's face morphed to reflect her confusion and feelings, her smile still there, but her eyes losing their playful glimmer and her brow knitting with concern.

"You relapsed?" she asked.

"That's the fancy-schmancy name for it. Yeah." He teased gently, not sure what she was thinking. He was still standing there, not sure if he should sit or get out.

"Um… Well, it's understandable. You lost a patient. A kid, even. Of course you would… feel… tempted."

House nodded, watching her process. "It wasn't… I didn't make a decision to go off and get some. I came across it and was… You know, I just didn't think it through well."

"Well, House," Cuddy said. "I'm… That's upsetting."

He wrinkled his forehead. "Upsetting. To what, exactly?"

"To me. Of course. To you, I hope. To us."

House nodded. He had no idea what exactly was happening here. "I didn't think it was _good _news," he snarked.

"So what did you think? You could just fall off the wagon and come in here and tell me and everything would just go back to normal?" she asked. She was worked up, but the emotion behind it was unclear.

House sighed. "I really didn't know what to expect," he told her.

"You can't just be casual about this. This is a big deal."

"Who's being casual?" he asked, defensive. "What did you want me to do? Come in here with a hairshirt on? Flog myself in front of you a few times?"

"Listen, if you go back on drugs… we can't be together House. I have a daughter. And… you can't work here, House. We've been down this road…" She was rambling a little.

"I'm not going back on drugs, Cuddy. It was a relapse. It was one relapse."

"Well, I need to make sure it stays that way," she told him.

"_You_ need to?" he asked, incredulous. "Gonna hire a chaperone for me? Lock me in my office? Well guess what? You might just have missed another stash, Cuddy. What then?" He was getting angry, but he didn't really know why. What had he expected? Why had he even told her? He was scolding himself for being so stupid. "So I tell you the truth and I get a big lecture and a bunch of threats. This whole honesty thing's really working out great for us, isn't it?" he sniped.

Cuddy narrowed her eyes at him. "I'm not threatening you, House. But you need to understand that there are consequences for your choices."

He laughed bitterly. "That's true. When I was carefully weighing my options last night I totally forgot about my relationship and my job."

"Clearly you did."

"Give me a break, Cuddy."

"I will," she replied, composing herself and straightening up. "You get a break, House. From me. From work. One week."

"What the hell are you talking about?" he asked.

"You need to understand what Vicodin is risking for you." House looked at her with a cold stare, which she ignored. "Maybe after a week without me, without your job, you'll think twice next time you're tempted."

House didn't know what to say. He stared at her set jaw. He saw her hand trembling a little. He stood up and walked to the door. "Have a nice week, Cuddy." And he walked out.

[H] [H] [H]

Wilson came into Cuddy's office the next day. "Where's House?" he asked. "His team hasn't heard from him. He's not picking up his phone." Cuddy looked up at him and he noticed that she looked like shit. She had dark circles under her bloodshot eyes. "Is everything okay?" he asked with urgency.

"I gave House a week's leave," she told him flatly.

Wilson looked confused. "For what?" He still didn't know if House had talked to Cuddy.

"You know he relapsed, I assume," she answered.

"Um… He told you that?" Wilson replied, ever-cagey.

"Yes, Wilson. You aren't ratting him out, though I had hoped you would," she snapped.

"I knew he'd tell you himself," he answered.

"Well he did."

"And you gave him a leave? He took more Vicodin, is that it? Is he in rehab?"

"No."

"Then what?" Wilson asked.

"I wanted him to understand what was at stake," she answered, defiance again creeping into her voice.

"What do you mean, Cuddy?"

"I told him he couldn't see me or come to work for a week. I want him to see what he's risking if he goes back on drugs."

Wilson's face slowly changed from confusion to disbelief, tinged with some anger. "What the hell, Cuddy?!"

"What?" she asked. She sounded genuine, like she wanted to know what was wrong with this plan. She knew something was wrong with it but felt at a logistical loss for what she should have done.

"You tell an addict who just relapsed to just go home and sit around for a week? You think that's gonna help him stay clean?" Wilson shouted.

"What was I supposed to do, Wilson? Act like it was fine? Like it was no big deal?"

"How about not sending him to his room like he's a child?" Wilson shouted. "He knows what's at risk, Cuddy. And he scared himself. How do you think punishing him is going to help?"

Cuddy paused, not sure what to say. She bit her lip and fought back a few tears. "I didn't know what to say, Wilson… what to do. I don't really know how to help him."

"You thought he'd never relapse?"

"I'd hoped," she said. "And… I guess I thought _he'd _know what to do… How to fix it."

"He did, Cuddy. He came to you for help."

"I'm not a psychiatrist."

Wilson laughed softly. "You're better. You're a friend. You love him." Cuddy pursed her lips. "He's vulnerable, Cuddy. He needs you."

"To what? It's not like the man shows me his emotions, what's going on inside."

"He does just that," Wilson corrected. "He _shows_ you. You just want him to _tell _you, and that's not going to come easy. Trust me, I know. Twenty years of friendship and I can count on one hand the number of times he's said 'I feel.'"

Cuddy thought about that a little. "Shit. I really fucked this up."

"Um…" Wilson tried to think of something comforting to say. "Yup," he settled on.

Cuddy rushed around the desk and got her coat and purse. "I gotta go," she said to Wilson.

"Now you're making some sense."


	3. Chapter 3

Cuddy knocked on his door. He swung it open and she was pleased to see he was at least dressed, looked somewhat functional.

"Hey," she said sheepishly.

"Hey," he replied flatly.

"I'm an idiot. And I'm sorry."

He nodded. "Okay."

"Are you okay?"

"I'm doing pretty well considering I snorted coke off a prostitute's stomach all night."

Cuddy gave him a dirty look. "I'm trying to apologize."

He smirked at her. "I'm okay. I didn't abuse anything but alcohol and myself."

"I… I just was so… You caught me off guard."

"Yeah. I was gonna send you a relapse 'save the date' card, but you know. Got busy."

Cuddy sighed and laughed a little. She stepped toward him and he pulled her in for a hug. That's when she heard his keys jingle and realized he'd been heading out when she knocked. "Where are you going?" she asked.

"Shrink," he replied.

"Oh. Oh, that's good." She felt comforted by the idea that he had someone else, a professional, looking out for him. She pulled her face back from his chest and looked up at him. "Can I come?" she asked him suddenly. It was a spontaneous thought.

He studied her. "A psychological threesome. Kinky, Cuddy."

"Maybe… Maybe Nolan can tell me what to do for you when something like this happens."

House shrugged. "Sure. But you should know… We don't wear pants."

"Damn," she said, laying her head against him again. "Cuz I didn't wear any underwear."

He laughed softly into her hair.

[H] [H] [H]

House and Cuddy walked into Nolan's office. Cuddy watched House drop into a chair with familiarity as she stood awkwardly, wondering where she should be. Nolan gestured at another chair and Cuddy sat down.

"Hope you dug up your old 'Couples Counseling 101' notes," House groused.

Nolan smirked. "Something tells me my specialization in addiction might just be of some assistance in your romantic dilemmas." He smiled kindly at Cuddy and she was amazed at how easily he seemed to roll with the unexpected. His usual appointment now had a third person in it, the atmosphere was highly charged, and yet Nolan seemed calm and focused, ready to handle whatever might come his way. She supposed you had to be like that dealing with addicts and the mentally ill.

"I'm guessing this has been an unusual week?" he probed.

House rolled his eyes in an exaggerated fashion. "I got my period."

Now Cuddy rolled her eyes. "He relapsed." Again she noted that Nolan didn't ruffle a feather.

"When and how much?" was all he asked.

"Monday," House replied flatly. "Two pills."

"What happened?" Nolan asked. There was no tone – not accusation, pity, worry. Not even curiosity. He was like a reporter gathering the facts. Cuddy suddenly realized he sounded like any other doctor dealing with a patient. They might be vomiting their spleen out and you just calmly ask when it started, if there's any blood, etc. In cases both physical and psychological, the treatment requires full knowledge of the situation.

House met his eyes, a petulant teenager for the moment. "Well, see, I placed them on my tongue, then I made a swallowing motion with my throat…" Nolan just smirked at him, apparently as used to the drill as Cuddy was.

"Thanks. Now let's back up to a little before that. What happened?"

House stared at him and Nolan stared back. Cuddy felt awkward in the full minute of silence but neither of them seemed bothered by it.

"I lost a patient, a kid" House said. Nolan nodded. "I didn't go looking for it. I came across an old stash and I was… I took them."

"You lost a patient, you came across and old stash, and you were…" Nolan repeated. "You were what?"

House sighed and shifted in his seat. "I was just so aware of the fragility of life," he whined with a fake pout, "And it was all so scary and overwhelming and I needed an escape." He offered a theatrical sob.

"House," Cuddy chided.

The men ignored her completely.

"So it was a rough day, you found an old stash when you were vulnerable," Nolan summarized. "Any more since then?" House shook his head. "Why did you invite Lisa to join us?" he asked.

"Liiiiiisa," House repeated with a smirk, glancing at Cuddy, "just really really wanted to see what this head-shrinking business is all about. So we bartered some sexual favors – just over the clothes stuff, nothing big – and I let her tag along."

Nolan's eyes slid to Cuddy, who met his with a mixture of nervousness and exasperation.

"You comfortable if I speak with her alone, House?"

House froze in his chair "About what?" he asked, suddenly a little nervous about losing control of the situation.

"Foreign policy," Nolan replied dryly. House studied him. Then he stood up and made a _go right ahead _gesture with his arm. "You have Lisa listed as someone I can share privileged information with," Nolan reminded him. Cuddy was shocked and looked at House. He met her eyes and shrugged a little. "Is that still okay with you?" Nolan asked.

House walked to the door. "Share away, doc. Just be careful." He jerked his thumb toward Cuddy. "This one's a real whack job." He walked out and Cuddy and Nolan were alone.

"He listed me?" Cuddy asked, still shocked.

Nolan nodded. "That surprises you?"

Cuddy nodded. "I just… I didn't think that would occur to him, so early in our relationship."

Nolan was thoughtful. "From what I understand, your relationship has been going on for the better part of two decades."

Cuddy laughed a little. "I meant, so early in our being… a couple."

Nolan nodded. "He listed you the day he entered Mayfield," he told her.

Cuddy stopped breathing. "Why would he have done that?" she asked quietly, more to herself than to Nolan.

"He trusts you."

Cuddy straightened up a little at that statement and replied, "Well, that's part of what I need your help with, Dr. Nolan. I can't be responsible for fixing him, and I'm not sure what the right thing to do is after this relapse. I'm not sure I handled it correctly."

Nolan drummed his fingers on the arm of his chair.

"What?" Cuddy asked after a half minute of him staring at her.

Nolan took in a big breath. "You said a lot in those few sentences and I'm just trying to decide which road to go down first." Cuddy's mind reeled back to what she'd said, trying to remember her exact wording, wondering if she'd been politically incorrect in some way.

"I - " She started to launch into a babbling restatement of what she'd said, but Nolan cut her off.

"How did you find out about his relapse?" Nolan asked.

"He told me, the next day," Cuddy replied.

"And how did you feel?"

"I told him he couldn't stay with me for a week, and that I wanted him to take the week off work. I told him he needed to think about all he was risking if he got hooked again, and thought that experiencing a week with no me, no career, would drive that point home. But then Wilson disagreed and told me –"

Nolan cut her off again. "How did you feel?" he repeated.

"I'm telling you…" Cuddy said, feeling self-conscious.

"You're telling me what you did, your thoughts behind what you did. And that's important, don't get me wrong. But I know that our thoughts and actions are often influenced, at least in part, by how we feel. So I want to know how you felt when he told you he'd relapsed."

Cuddy swallowed hard. She hadn't really thought about this. "Umm…" She trained her mind back to that moment - his confession, her worry. "I was worried."

"About him or about you?"

"Both," she answered immediately.

Nolan nodded and let it sit there for a moment. Then, "Why were you worried about him?"

"I was worried he'd start taking Vicodin again."

"Why were you worried about you?"

"I was worried if he started using again, I'd have to break up with him."

Nolan nodded. Cuddy could sense… what, disapproval? She knew she hadn't given the right answer. "What was I supposed to be worried about?" she asked, a little hostility creeping into her voice.

"There's no 'supposed to,'" Nolan answered. "There just is what is."

"Isn't that what anyone would worry about?" she asked, not buying it.

Nolan sucked in his lips. "I don't want you to read too much into this, because we're all finding our ways in the relationships we are in," he said. Cuddy nodded, preparing herself for some kind of bombshell. "But when he told me he'd relapsed, I was worried about him too. But I wasn't especially worried about him using again."

"What were you worried about?" Cuddy asked, baffled.

"I was worried about his pain, and his inability to express or deal with it."

Cuddy felt stunned at the humanity and compassion of this statement, and wanted to somehow claim it for herself, to rephrase things so that it was what she'd really meant. But she knew that wasn't true. She hadn't thought about his pain. She had immediately jumped to the logistics and her fears of what a relapse meant for her relationship with him. She'd thought of herself.

"I worry about that too," she said feebly. It was true, even if it hadn't been her pressing thought at that moment.

"How much does he tell you about his pain?"

"His leg pain?"

"Any of his pain."

Cuddy thought about it. "Nothing, really. I mean, I can tell by his limp or if he's rubbing it that he's hurting more than usual."

"And the other pain?" Nolan pressed.

"I mean, he's not that kind of guy. He'll say he had a shitty day and leave it at that."

Nolan met her eyes. "How about stuff that didn't occur yesterday or today... Does he talk to you about his 'baggage' as we sometimes call it? His childhood? His regrets? That kind of thing?"

Cuddy shook her head, and the intimacy she'd been so proud of sharing with this inaccessible man suddenly came into focus and was patchier than she'd thought. She knew every inch of his body, his every erogenous zone and freckle. And she knew his intellect, his every opinion, his rationale for things. But his psyche was still a mystery. He knew her because she'd told him every story of her life, mundane or dramatic, and he captured it all in his steel trap of a brain. But she knew only bits and pieces of his life, and little of it had any emotional embellishment.

"Why do you think you two don't talk about that stuff?"

"He's afraid of his pain," Cuddy accused.

Nolan smiled gently at her. "He is," he agreed. "But I don't think he is the only one."

Cuddy met his eyes, furrowing her brow. "I know he's in pain. I've always known that."

"Where was he on the pain scale today? Last week? Do you know the last time he hit over a five?"

"I don't want to treat him like a patient," Cuddy said defensively.

"Okay, so asking about his pain implies a professional relationship to you." Nolan surmised. "I could see how that would be tricky for two doctors. How about the more intimate stuff then? He lost a patient. Has he lost a patient since you two have been a couple?" Cuddy thought about it and realized he hadn't. She shook her head. "If you could go back, assured that this relapse was a one-time thing, what would you say to him instead when he told you he'd taken Vicodin."

"I mean, I told him I was sorry about his patient. We all lose patients, and there's really little anyone can say. We've all found ways – personal ways – to deal with that feeling."

Nolan just stared at her. "Forgive me for sounding glib, Lisa, but what do you think House's personal ways for dealing with those feelings have been?"

She nodded. He'd just fallen back on the only way he knew how to deal with things. "But how am I supposed to help him if he won't trust me, won't be vulnerable with me? Why would he rather risk sobriety than just open up to me?"

"Good question," Nolan replied. "Have you asked _him_ that?" Cuddy shook her head, the weight of a shared responsibility settling on her shoulders. "You're waiting for an invitation when maybe you need to just try to get in there," he told her. Nolan took a deep breath. "What do you know about his childhood with his father?" Nolan asked suddenly.

Cuddy had stopped breathing altogether now. "I know he was abusive," she offered feebly.

"Look, you're a smart woman and we aren't going to be able to talk like this often. May I be candid with you?" Cuddy nodded and took a deep breath and Nolan pressed on. "Yes, his father abused him. Let's even lose that clinical word we hide behind to avoid the ugliness. His father hurt him, hit him, humiliated him, controlled him. His mother allowed that to happen to him." Cuddy's chest got tight and her hands began shaking. "This has made him pretty messed up. He was not a relationship-oriented man ever. Not many close friendships. Not many romantic relationships. He fell in love with Stacy. It's possible he fell in love with you first, and probably not a coincidence he disappeared. And then several years later, two women he had loved secretly mangled his leg."

"That's not fair!" Cuddy cried, but she was sobbing instantly. Talk about knowing where to poke the stick. She couldn't even control it, the grief wracking her body as she shook in the chair.

"I am trying to present his perspective, Lisa. His psyche's perspective. I am not accusing you of having done the wrong thing. But in his mind, a mind that started making sense of things from birth, it is another example of people he loved, people he trusted, allowing his body to be hurt. It is another example of people in power deciding he couldn't be trusted to make decisions for himself." These words did nothing for Cuddy's state of mind. She cried out twelve years of remorse and conflicted feelings. She had second-guessed that day in her mind so many times, and she wasn't convinced they had done the wrong thing, but nevertheless they hadn't done what he'd so clearly wanted. They had taken it upon themselves to exert power over his body.

"I wanted to save his life," she croaked.

"And you probably did," Nolan answered. "He even admits that. But you need to understand that the man is afraid of people. In his experience, loving people invites more pain. So when he has pain, his instinct is to disconnect and deal with it in solitary, familiar, trusted ways." Cuddy was taking slow deep breaths now, trying to calm down. "The relapse… It wasn't about what you mean to him, what his job means to him."

"It was about what he thinks he means to me."

Nolan nodded, satisfied that he had made his point. "He can't believe that someone loves him enough to help him cope. So he turned to an old friend."

Cuddy sat there, lost in thought.

"Lisa, why do you think you sent him away? You sent him back to his apartment, kept him away from work. Do you really think he was the only one you were thinking of when you came up with that?"

Cuddy thought about it. It hadn't been conscious, but he was right. She didn't know what to do with him, with his pain, so she'd sent him off to deal with it and come back to her fixed. The realization punched her in the stomach and her breath caught in her chest.

"I didn't mean to…" Her voice trailed off.

"You didn't mean to handle your inability to cope with his pain in an unhealthy way," Nolan said for her. "Well, I'm telling you, neither did he." He let that sink in for a moment. "We all do things sometimes – foolish things – because we are afraid or overwhelmed. Sometimes it is something concrete and nameable, like taking drugs. Sometimes it is vague and justifiable, like pushing people away."

"I love him," was all she could think to say.

"You must," Nolan agreed. "He's very difficult, so you must love him to be working at this."

She rolled her eyes. "To be failing at this."

"And there it is," Nolan said, "The road I had thought of going down at the beginning of our conversation. Your job - as his friend, girlfriend, lover, what-have-you – is not to fix him. If that's what you're trying to do, you'll always be wrong."

Cuddy nodded. The words sounded right, but she rubbed against the same problem every time she told herself that. "If I'm not supposed to fix him, what am I supposed to do with his problems? His pain?"

"You deal with them," Nolan answered immediately. "With compassion, patience, and love." He waited a beat. "Getting off Vicodin, he had to face interminable physical pain. He had to figure out other ways of dealing with it, easing it. He and I work at that and are just digging into dealing with the psychological pain. Of easing that. But the thing I have always told him will never work is trying to escape it. And that won't work for you either." Cuddy nodded and brushed tears out of her eyes.

Nolan looked at her hard. "You might love him unconditionally. I believe that with the story you two have." He leaned a little closer to her. "But if you need him fixed to be with him, then you need to let him go."


	4. Chapter 4

Cuddy walked into the hallway to find House waiting on a bench. She paused to really look at him, to take him in. He was sitting on the edge of the seat, hunched over with his forehead resting on his hand, propped on his cane. His other hand absent-mindedly rubbed his thigh. And she realized standing there that it was true - the first emotion she felt was fear. She had to break through the fear to get at the compassion, at the love.

His pain scared her because there was nothing she could do. Here he was, hurting physically and tormented psychologically, and she couldn't heal him. She thought about Nolan's words, about how loving him and fixing him were not the same thing.

Cuddy walked up slowly and knelt in front of him. She took his face in her hands and put his forehead to hers, instead of on his cane. She took his hand from his thigh and placed it on her cheek, and she put her hand in its place and gently rubbed his leg.

"How did you feel?" she asked him. "When you took the pills…"

House was quiet for a moment before speaking. "Things just went all wrong. I got pulled over. I walked in to a lawsuit. My patient died. My nine-year-old patient. I couldn't autopsy yet to find out why." House thought that was the answer to the question, but Cuddy Nolan-ed him.

"How did you _feel_?" House bit his lip slightly, tapped his cane on the floor a few times. "You can tell me, House. Tell me how you feel."

"Powerless," he murmured. Cuddy nodded and nuzzled his face a little. House swallowed hard and inhaled. "I'm sorry I screwed up," he whispered.

Cuddy sucked in her lips and shook her head slightly. "I'm sorry I left you alone," she whispered back.

House gave a half grin and sighed. "You had no choice. You can't be with me like that."

"Yes I can," she corrected. "I am going to be with you no matter what."

He chuckled a little at the romantic, illogical notion of the words. "Let the random killings and pedophilia begin!" he teased.

Cuddy grabbed his face and pulled it back so their eyes could meet better. "I'm not kidding, House." He averted his gaze to the side. "Look at me." His eyes slid back. "You do a shitty job letting people in, but if I want you to get better at that I have to stop doing a shitty job knocking." House just stared at her, knowing the somewhat cryptic speech was more for her benefit than his. "I want us to get to a place where, after a terrible day or when your leg is killing you, you aren't fighting the urge to score because instead you're focused on coming home to me."

He smiled, a little sadly. "You can't… You can't do anything about stuff like that Cuddy."

"I can comfort you. Just focus on coming home to me."

"You can't bring back a dead patient or dead thigh muscle."

"Neither can Vicodin."

He was quiet. "Touché," he replied quietly.

Cuddy tilted her chin up and kissed him softly. "Let's go home."

"To our respective homes or do I get to cross your threshold again?" he teased, already knowing the answer.

Cuddy stood and made a gesture to pull him up by the shoulders. "If we go to different places, how are we gonna have make-up sex?"

They began walking down the hallway together, House slinging his free arm over her shoulders. "Man, Nolan is good," he mused. "I gotta stay clean so I can keep my job so I can keep my benefits. I don't want to risk losing him," he sniffed dramatically.

"If you're fixable," she teased back, "He'll be the one to do it."

"Do not underestimate your powers, young Jedi."

"Huh?"

"Nevermind."

[H] [H] [H]

_I'm focused on coming home to you_, was all he said in his text. He'd finally been allowed to do his autopsy that day, so she guessed it had something to do with that.

She waited for him on the couch, a scotch on the table. She heard him come in and walk to the living room doorway. He looked at her and he looked… strained. He was hurting over something, though she didn't know what. He dropped his bag and shrugged out of his coat and came to plop next to her. He saw the scotch, said "Thanks," and downed it before laying his head in her lap.

Cuddy just pet his head. "You want TV?" she asked, trying to allow him space. Hey, he came home sober and at a decent hour, even though something had obviously shaken him up. This was huge progress. House semi-nodded and she flicked it on, stopping on a random news channel.

"You'll see tomorrow," he began. "I reported my patient's parents to the cops. Protective services came to get the brother."

Cuddy felt a lump form in her throat, but she pushed it down. "What was it?" she asked quietly.

He was silent again for a while, and she waited for him, like coaxing a scared animal from its hiding place - all she could do was move slowly, speak softly, and offer comfort.

"The brain lesions…" he began. "Someone shook him. Someone had… been shaking him. For a long time."

"Oh, God," Cuddy blurted out. She couldn't help thinking of Rachel when she heard things like this. She wondered how people could hurt a child, how they could live with themselves.

"It was just too much damage eventually. His brain wasn't operating his bodily systems correctly anymore."

"God," Cuddy repeated.

"Yeah, not sure he's listening, Cuddy," he joked gently.

They sat in silence for a while. Then House took a deep breath. "I, uh… You're also gonna find out tomorrow that I punched the father in the face." Cuddy stiffened a little, but tried to focus on this moment, right here, instead of all the worries that were tumbleweeds in her brain. "Cops gave me a bunch of shit at first, but let me go when they heard me out. Apparently child abuse is one of those unpopular crimes," he said bitterly.

And there they sat, at the precipice of something huge. Cuddy realized he'd set her up, given her the invitation she'd been waiting for. Now she needed to walk through the door.

She shifted her body to lie on the couch and pulled him to her so he was lying against her chest. He had his arms around her. "What's the worst thing he did to you?" she asked finally. "Your dad."

House pressed his face into her body for a moment, then turned to the side, staring into space. "Depends. Psychologically or physically?"

"Um…" Cuddy was taken aback. She hadn't thought of it in these terms before. But House was forthcoming.

"Actually, I guess the worst always ended in physical. That's the thing with abusers… They don't use force until they have to. It's all mind games to be in control. So if it gets physical, it was a bad one by any measure."

"What do you mean, mind games?" Cuddy asked. He was talking about it so clinically that she felt more comfortable.

"He'd want me to do things, when and how he wanted. So I'd have a friend over and he'd want the garbage taken out. I learned quickly that I if a put him off or gave him any lip, he'd mention in front of the friend that I wet the bed the night before or something, true or not. He didn't need to get physical if I feared stuff like that."

Cuddy felt a little sick. She thought of Rachel again and wondered how a parent could shut off their empathy for their child like that. "So you just did what he wanted?"

"A lot of the time," House admitted. "But you know me. I don't do so well with that," he chuckled and she played with his earlobe, trying to just let him know she was focused on him. "As a teenager, I started standing up to him more."

"As a teen? He couldn't have spanked you or whatever… He'd just all out hit you?"

"He didn't rage. He was always controlled. He'd just put the right amount of pressure on the right spot – physically or emotionally – and get what he wanted."

"What did he do to you, House?" Cuddy pressed.

There was a long silence. For some reason talking about the physical abuse was harder than the psychological, or the idea of abuse in general. The rawness of physical pain was so tangible… He knew she'd get uncomfortable. He knew she'd picture it all.

He took a deep breath. "To answer your question, the 'worst time' was probably when he broke my arm."

Cuddy gasped. She caught herself. "I'm sorry… I'm sorry… Go on."

House laughed. "You don't have to be sorry. That's allowed to shock you."

"How old were you?"

House's forehead wrinkled in thought. 'Fourteen? Fifteen?"

"What the hell happened?" she asked.

House was lost in thought. "I don't even remember the issue. That's the ironic thing. He did it to teach me these lessons, supposedly, about lofty things like respect or diligence or humility. I think he really believed he was doing that. But in every incident I still remember, I have no idea what he expected me to learn from it."

He was quiet. For a long time. Cuddy just kept her arms around him, running a hand up and down his chest. Finally he spoke again.

"So I'd defied him in some way and to get me to cave he had twisted my arm behind my back. You know how that's done?" Cuddy nodded, almost imperceptibly, lost in the idea of this. "So, I'd been in this with him before and I just… pushed. I wouldn't back down."

Again, silence.

"And he broke your arm?" Cuddy asked, still incredulous.

House nodded. "Yup."

"You must have had to go to the hospital," Cuddy thought aloud.

"Yup."

"What did you tell them?"

"This I remember clearly…" he said, but then he was silent. He was silent for the longest time yet in this stilted, slow conversation.

"Are you okay?" she finally asked.

"You're… You're gonna hate my mom."

Another obvious oversight struck Cuddy. Of course he resisted sharing this with people. These were real people… His dad hadn't died so long ago. And his mom was still in his life. You didn't tell this stuff to people who might end up having dinner with them.

"I won't," Cuddy offered.

House chuckled briefly. "So my mom drove me to the hospital, and we didn't talk at all at first. I finally said, 'What am I supposed to tell them?' She told me to say I had fallen down the stairs." Cuddy sucked in her breath, somehow shocked even though she had known vaguely what was coming. "And I had said," he laughed quietly, like this was some inside joke. "I said, 'Nice. My mother is telling me to lie.' And she goes, 'Oh, Greg. Everybody lies.'"

Cuddy's hands froze on his body when she realized how everything he was was a gestalt of all these individual events of his life, from birth to right now. No one thing had shattered him, embittered him, made him skittish. He'd taken it all in and turned it over in his mind in the same effort everyone makes – an effort to make sense of life.

"And that became your mantra," Cuddy said, more to herself.

House shrugged. "She was right. It was good to learn that early. Everybody hides things because they want to appear a certain way. And sometimes they'll risk everything to protect that lie."

"She was supposed to protect _you_," Cuddy said bitterly.

"She thought she was…" House murmured. "I have to believe that she thought she was."

Cuddy thought about that for a minute. "I guess sometimes you encounter crazy stuff no one prepared you for and you… you just…" Cuddy was faltering.

"…do the best you can," House finished for her.

[H] [H] [H]

After another drink and some quiet zoning out to the television, they went to the bedroom. House took a shower and Cuddy lay on the bed, turning the evening over in her mind. It was painful, and she felt awkward in her handling of it, but she had never felt this close to him. She had never felt so inside of him before.

And he must have felt the same way because he came to the bed, beautifully naked with water still beaded on parts of his body, and lay down, pulling her close to him immediately, inhaling the scent of her hair. "You know what always cheers me up?" he joked, snickering against her forehead.

Cuddy smiled. She sat up and straddled him, smirking down at his perfect face. She ran her hands down his ribs, over his belly, feeling the hardness of his body, dusted with hair. And then she caught herself… It was like the conversation with Nolan had pointed something out, and now she saw it everywhere. Her hands had skated over his hips, and as they slid down his thighs, she had detoured on the right one to just skim the border of his scar, not daring to really touch it in any intimate way.

She was his unaware accomplice. He hid his pain and she allowed it in the questions she didn't ask, the parts she didn't touch, the doors she didn't pound against.

She paused, kneeling in her underwear between his legs. She studied his face, eyes closed, a slight smile pulling at the corners of his mouth. And she didn't want to do what she wanted to do. She didn't want to rock the boat. But the thing was… They were happy right here, right now. So everything was fine. But when everything was not fine, they were then afraid and at sea. The time to ask about his pain was not when he had the Vicodin to his lips. And a kiss to his thigh the first night they made love didn't deliver understanding or heal him. She'd used it as a symbol when it should have been a promise.

Cuddy gently laid her palm on his scar. She watched his forehead crease and his eyebrows knit together. A tension strained his jaw. "House," she whispered.

"Don-" he'd started to protest, but stopped himself, getting it.

"You can keep your eyes closed," she pleaded with him. "Just, help me here… Does it hurt?"

House sighed. "Always."

She kept her palm against him, wishing she could sense his pain with her skin, wishing there was a way to understand without words, without the hard part.

"Where does it hurt the most?" she asked.

House was breathing slowly and deeply, trying to wade into this water with her. His hand reached down to cover hers and he moved her, pressing down on her finger tips like the compass on a Ouija board. The pads of her fingers dipped into the deepest craters of his scar. "Here…" he told her, then he moved her fingers to the lower border, where the absence of muscle should have been blending into knee. "And here."

"What does it feel like? How does it hurt?" she asked.

"Um…" he was nervous, but also thoughtful, like he hadn't been asked such a question before. "The whole thing, just aches. But in those deep spots it's like a spike, like zings of current." Cuddy realized she had never, ever thought about his pain this way. She'd considered it in some vague nebulous way. It existed, she knew, but she had never given it a nuanced presence. "By the knee," he continued, "It's a tightness. Like it's pulled too taut."

"And the Vicodin… Does it all go away?"

House, eyes still closed, shook his head. "Nah. It just rounds off the sharp edges. It's a pain I can muscle through then."

Cuddy thought about that. _A pain I can muscle through. _Everyone always thought that was always what he was doing. But apparently there was deeper level - a level he'd been living with for over a year now – that he didn't feel like he overcame. A level that beat him.

She swallowed hard. Keeping her fingers on his thigh she said what she'd always needed to say, though she hadn't realized it. "I'm not sorry about what we did, House," she admitted. "I really believed – I still believe – you would have died." House was expressionless and it scared her, but she pressed on. "I'm sorry any of it had to happen to you. I wish I could rewind and intervene earlier," she said, describing what she'd always fantasized about when it came to this issue. "But I don't wish I had done anything differently once we knew about the infarction. I don't even wish I had tried harder to convince you because I knew you were unconvincible." House gave a brief tight smirk of acknowledgement of that point. "And I suspect…" Her voice was shaking. She didn't know if she could do this… if she _should_ do this. "I suspect what I am about to say mirrors some painful words you've heard from others, but…" He opened his eyes then and met hers. She still couldn't read him. "I did it to help you, House."

He just stared at her.

"What do you feel... about me… when I tell you that?" she asked, her voice quivering a little.

"I feel what I always feel about you," he chuckled.

She looked at him expectantly.

"I love you, Cuddy. Even when I feel bad things, that never changes." Cuddy felt this enormous weight slipping off her shoulders. "I feel a million things about my leg. I feel angry at the doctors who waited so long; I feel bitter that it had to happen at all; I feel hypocritical that I wasn't – am not - able to suck it up and cut the damn thing off; I feel… happy that you cared enough to think outside the box."

"You do?" she asked, shocked.

He smiled. "I don't blame you for my infarction, Cuddy."

She brought her hand to her mouth, surprised by how overcome she was, by how much this had bothered her. He reached up and pulled her to him. "Come on, you little narcissist. You might be the great and powerful Cuddy, but you didn't fuck me up." He rubbed his hand along her back. "I was down that road long before you." Cuddy squeezed his body tight in her small arms. "Of course, I was down that road and _you_ still fucked me, so what does that say about you?" he teased.

She sat up and grinned at him. "That I'm a charitable person," she replied, winking.

"You are," he agreed, laughing. "That must be why you just kept giving 'Moooore' and 'Moooooore,'" he moaned.

Cuddy laughed and slapped him. She bent to nuzzle at his chest and began kissing down his body. She nipped at his belly, ran her tongue to his hip. Then she kissed his scar. House groaned in protest. "Come on, Cuddy, enough."

"I don't want to ignore it, House."

"You don't have to make love to it, for Christ's sake! It's ugly."

"You know I've never really looked at it," she told him, running her fingers along it again, despite House's muscles, rigid with tension over it all. "It isn't ugly, really. It's… It's beautiful. Here was this trauma, this assault of muscle and blood vessels and nerves and skin and… Even after it was traumatized, it found a way to heal and do what it needed to do. Really, your leg does what other people's legs do, but has to overcome so much more. It's… incredible." She shifted and crawled up the bed too look in his eyes. "You're incredible."

They stared at each other tenderly for a moment. "Yeah, well, I have other incredible body parts, if you'd care to lavish attention on those," he said, embarrassed by her attention.

"Oh really?" she said, beginning to kiss down his body again, laughing the whole time. "What's your penis done that's so goddamn special?"

She reached the aforementioned body part and began giving it its due admiration. "It stands proud in the face of mockery," House teased, but the joke was no sooner out of his mouth than his words turned into a moan as he felt Cuddy's lips around him. Cuddy slid her tongue over him and felt his stomach muscles clench with pleasure. She took all of him inside her mouth, sliding her tongue along him slowly. She heard his breath rasp and glanced up to see his mouth had fallen open. She drew on him gently, flicked her tongue across his most sensitive spot. She saw him lick his bottom lip. She knew she had to stop using it as a crutch, but there was something so amazing about being able to transport him out of an awful mood, and awful ache, and into a place of pleasure. She loved being able to do that for him.

She moved her mouth around him with a slow rhythm, each motion seeming to make him even harder. She heard little nearly-imperceptible whimpers begin to escape him and she knew if she just moved a little faster, she could take him to a place without pain for a bit. House felt her all around him and he looked down to see her, on her knees between his legs, completely focused on getting him off. And he wanted that… so much. But he wanted her.

He mustered all his self-discipline and reached down to scoop her under the arms and pull her back up. He looked at her staring at him, her eyes full of lust, her lips slightly swollen from kissing him, and he knew when he came he wanted to be looking at this image. "Sorry. Was I doing something wrong? I suck at that," she teased.

He smiled. "Yeah, yeah. It was a mess. We'll have to practice more tomorrow," he told her, unclasping her bra and rolling her over onto her back. He attacked her breasts with his mouth, sucking on her nipples until she was writhing beneath him. He slid a hand into her panties and ran his fingers along her wetness, and _he _moaned. She felt a surge of heat between her legs at the feeling of his mouth on her breast, the sensation of his hands sliding along her folds, and the erotic moan he released when he felt her desire for him. More than even wanting her, he wanted her to want him.

Cuddy cried out to the ceiling and bucked her hips up into his hand. He looked up at her face and slid his fingers inside of her, his thumb gently pressing on her clit. She met his eyes and did nothing to hide her pleasure, her breath puffing out in little gasps. He pushed in and pulled out of her and she saw his hips slightly mimicking the motion next to her. He wanted to be inside her, feeling her in a more profound way, but he also wanted to keep control so he could watch her.

"House," she said as she neared the edge. Her hands reached up and grasped the headboard.

"Cuddy," was all he said in response, a small grin playing on his lips as he watched her mind beginning to lose the battle with her body.

She came on his hand and he watched her face. Her body tensed and arched and shook and her breasts bounced with the rhythm of her writhing, but he stared at her eyes as they glazed over, her lips as they formed a perfect circle of surprise at the pleasure. And he couldn't resist kissing that perfect circle, dipping his tongue into her mouth as she moaned, sucking on her bottom lip as she whimpered. Her lips closed around his at the same moment her hand stopped his, pushing him away from an over-stimulated spot. She inhaled with shallow, shaking bursts, and exhaled with full round gusts against his mouth.

"Fuck," she finally articulated.

"Okay," he replied, crawling between her legs. Cuddy laughed breathlessly.

Before she'd even recovered fully she felt all of him slide deep inside of her, his hands at the small of her back, pulling her to meet him. She lay there - arms still splayed across the sheets, head still lolling a bit with the dreamy sensation of release - while he pushed inside her over and over again. He fell to his hands and hovered over her, watching her recover from one orgasm and move toward another.

"You are the most beautiful thing in my world," he told her.

She smiled weakly, overwhelmed physically and emotionally. Their hips moved together in a familiar rhythm and each time he entered her he felt a sense of relief, of comfort. She wanted him so much, it was indescribable, but she attempted to anyway, running her hands down his chest and whispering, "I want all of you." She came as soon as she said it and when he felt her muscles contracting around him he fell to his elbows, pressing his forehead to hers while his body gave in and he felt nothing but happiness for a few lovely moments.

As the sensations calmed he collapsed on her and said quietly against her ear. "I gave you that a long time ago. It just took you a while to be brave enough to open it." He kissed the side of her head. "Disappointing, eh? Kind of a regive."

She laughed and slapped his bare butt. "I think I can find the gift receipt… Get my money back." He laughed and rolled onto his back, pulling her with him to lie across his body like a blanket. They lay there in a sweaty pile, House running his hand up and down Cuddy's back. "Hey," he said quietly.

"Hmmm?" she murmured, eyes closed and blissed out.

"I think I'm having a feeling."

She laughed a little. "Yeah? Good for you, House. What is it?"

"I call it 'Cuddy.'"


End file.
